


say something like you love me

by owedbetter



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: All the other characters aside Twelve & Clara are basically little mentions. Welp., F/M, Rock Star AU, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 21:47:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4196079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owedbetter/pseuds/owedbetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired and followed by the events of the fic "The Devil Dances" by lucelafonde (a rock star!au inspired by Peter Capaldi's punk rocker days -- 100% would recommend, 'tis a glorious piece), The Time Lords are on their last show of their current tour and, ever rightly so, things end with one hell of an announcement and a bang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	say something like you love me

**Author's Note:**

> Note: The song used is "Believe" by Mumford & Sons but is, for the sake of this fic, written by The Doctor & performed by The Time Lords. It's recommended that you give it a listen (preferably the 'live' version) while reading this fic in order to get the proper (???) feeling of what I'm trying to do here. Honestly, I just heard the song and this image popped into my head. I've been thinking about it all month. Enjoy! x

It is a well known secret with stage managers that the encore is always, always planned. It has always been in the set list and the decision as to which song will be used is usually pre-decided by the band’s front man, in collaborated creative effort with his bandmates. The talent manager is not usually quite as involved in the actual production itself, usually content wearing a suit and making Very Important phone calls from a quieter room backstage. This is not quite how The Time Lords and their tiny Lancastrian mother hen-esque boss of a manager works.

A dutiful control freak, she would present to them an acceptable list that will benefit the particular audience more, which is to say she’d pored over local charts and surveys by prospective attendees in order to boost audience satisfaction. This list is presented to the band and they choose the order and which ones they won’t be able to do for whatever reason. They have, more or less, accepted her brand of borderline micromanaging for the sake of their own sanity. Not begrudgingly, of course, as she’s proved time and time again that she usually knows what she’s doing; nor is she unreasonably demanding as hers as demands well-founded, delivered with a quaint wide-eyed charm that their front man could never quite resist. So neither could they. ( She has backups, of course she does. ) But the encore, more as a courtesy, is one that the band chooses themselves. Respectfully, she is always given the role of Assistant Stage Manager ( otherwise known as the thankless job of keeping everyone in check and making sure everything goes smoothly while the Stage Manager is in charge of more creative duties ) -- as is a condition stated in her contract.

"Could always not do an encore, you know," he says. Cheeky. A rare smugness on him that he wears dastardly well. "That'll get the suits some headlines."

The stage lights have dimmed and out there are the chants of   _ENCORE! ENCORE! ENCORE!_   ricocheting like bouncing bullets in the background. Even in the dark and her with her heeled black trainers and loosely flowing all-black dress and the headphones dangling around her neck – small voices that sound almost trapped in them, muffled and barely audible and technical and generally unimportant to the pair of them – he always gravitates to her.

It was their last show of the tour and of course he’s taking the piss; Clara doesn’t rise to the bait. A production assistant runs to him and hands him a bottle of water, which he then took without looking nor thanks while the assistant in question could not help but stare for a moment, leaving her glasses to droop against the bridge of her nose while sighing. A look from Clara ( dimpled smirk on her lips and a quirk of her brow ), paired with curt clearing of her throat, is all it takes for the assistant to remember her inhaler.

Clara smiles; he doesn’t notice the exchange.

But at him, she rolls her eyes and gently dabs the sweat off his forehead and down his neck with a clean, dry cloth. There’s a vein on his neck that keeps throbbing, the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he downs the water without pausing for breath is enough to let her know just how alive he is right then. All bright blue eyes – whirlpool wide, manic, and unafraid – and a wicked grin he doesn’t show too often. ( He has never looked more beautiful than when he’s like this – so much like the first time she’d ever seen him; the most beautiful man she has ever known; heart beating so fast you might think he’s got two. )

Already, the others were coming back on stage. One by one. At the corner, John was getting his final cheeky embrace from his now wife. ( Of course, The Companions were there; they’d opened for the band, again, of course and found themselves now perched with the rest of the crew backstage. As the encore, the final song of the night, there was a chaotic calm that engulfed the rest of the technical team – knowing that they were already just about done and the show had gone on without a hitch; another successful tour, done. ) The crowd outside were still cheering – implacable, insatiable. She doesn’t blame them. How could she? She knows too well for the sight they demand; she would too, if she were them.

"Oh shut up and play, you idiot."

Clara takes the bottle from his hands and gives him a quick peck on the cheek. ( Unnoticed by most, though a fair few of the cast and crew knew of their still unannounced engagement, of course. _After the tour_ , they’d mutually agreed. ) Before he can say another word, she’s shoving him out back on stage. Headphones back on, she gives the command. LIVE AT 5, 4, 3, 2 …

ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ᴄᴀʟʟ ɪᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪs ᴇᴠᴇɴɪɴɢ  
ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ʟᴏsᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ  
ᴘʀᴇsᴇᴛ ᴀʟʟ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ғᴇᴇʟɪɴɢs  
ᴍᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴏᴍғᴏʀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏɴɪɢʜᴛ  
ᴀɴᴅ ɪ'ᴍ ᴄʟɪᴍʙɪɴɢ ᴏᴠᴇʀ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ  
ᴀɴᴅ ɪ'ᴍ ʀᴜɴɴɪɴɢ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇsᴇ ᴡᴀʟʟs  
ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪғ ɪ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ, ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪғ ɪ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ,

ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪғ ɪ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ  
ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ sᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ

The light starts with, sweetly opened in sync with the single strum of his guitar while a steady hum from the synthesiser quietly rings out from the background. The crowd yells in sweet victory along with the other band just beside her. Clara watches on from the side, almost visible at the stage but still shrouded from public view, with the help of shadows and her ensemble. She isn’t supposed to be this close but it’s the end of it all – and nobody has ever yet dared to tell her no. His eyes, closed; his lips, so close to the mic he’s almost kissing it. Every slow strum opens to a new light highlighting one of the band members. Watching them, him – near a religious experience in itself. Like angels descending from above, telling her that this has always been where she was meant to be; open your eyes to the miracle of your life, they seem to say; keep a tight hold on it.

The bass makes itself known; soft beats from the drum making its start. She watches, silently mouthing along with the words she knows as well as they do ( of course she knows all their songs by heart; of course she does ) with a smile on her face, a loose fist against her racing heart. Rocking back and forth by her heel and toe, she’s almost bouncing to the rhythm. The Doctor gives a glance her way and doesn’t retract his gaze; he’s only looking at her now, there’s no denying it; she doesn’t usually stand near to the stage and he can see her so clearly from where he stands, that he’s facing her for the near entirety of the second verse. All of the rest of the crowd perplexed as his face, clear as day on the giant screens that show his image, while his bandmates and mostly everyone else share a sly smirk. And this is where nothing goes according to her plan – but everything, to his.

ɪ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇsᴛ ғᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ  
ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ’s ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟ ɪᴛ sᴇᴇᴍs  
sᴏ ᴛɪʀᴇᴅ ᴏғ ᴍɪsᴄᴏɴᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ  
ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴇʟsᴇ ᴛʜɪs ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ

ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪғ ɪ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ, ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪғ ɪ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ,

ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪғ ɪ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ  
ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ sᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ

They sing against each other. A duet that very few bear witness to; there are some in the audience who start looking bemused, noticing what he’s doing and not understanding anything. Yet. Him, cocking his head to motion her to the stage; her, all wide eyes as she shakes her head in the most vehemently silent 'NO' that she might possibly convey. They still sing, grinning the entire time, throughout this mimed exchange; she never notices members of her previous band slowly sneaking behind her.

sᴏ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴜᴘ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇs  
ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ɪ'ᴍ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ  
ᴛʜɪs ɪs ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ɢᴏ ᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴀʏ  
ɪғ ɪ'ᴍ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ɢᴜᴇss ᴡʜᴀᴛ’s ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍɪɴᴅ

His guitar riff, metallic and loud, emanates throughout the stadium - cutting through air like butter - as Amy and Rose quickly divest her of her headphones ( and of the little radio she has attached to her waist via a belt ) and push her out with aggression she’s only ever given and hardly ever receives that she can hardly do anything, aside from hiss her disapproval at them, but unable to fight back to which she then rather unceremoniously stumbles to centre stage.

Spotlight quickly on her – the crowd cheers ( the other Time Lords with them ) though they know not what they cheer for, exactly ( bless them ) – and the rest of the band are grinning at her. Clara, so very rarely surprised, is amongst them now – gaping mouth, standing stock still – and is handed a mic before she can even truly comprehend what she’d been shoved into. The Doctor’s still shredding his guitar, almost lewd with how quickly his fingers move against the strings, manic and facing her – his blue eyes’ stare into her own, speaking the dare that the quirk of his brows only add injury to. ( She’s never been one to back away from a dare. ) From confused is she then grinning just the same, rising to the challenge, fingers flexing around the black mic that's somehow home in her hands. And when he starts to sing again, The Doctor and Clara – taking centre stage, so does she.

sᴀʏ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ, sᴀʏ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ  
sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ  
ʟᴇss ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ᴍᴏᴠᴇ ᴀᴡᴀʏ  
ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴏɪsᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜɪs ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ

ᴡᴇʟʟ ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪғ ɪ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ, ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪғ ɪ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ,  
ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪғ ɪ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ sᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ

Though never rehearsed, she sings in a slightly different key ( a higher one ) that harmonizes so well with his own, it’s almost bespoke. Like it has always been writ this way. Everyone in attendance – even in the band, though they keep playing as well as they can – hollers in the loudest way but the pair of them look only at the other, the lights and all the rest fading away into the ether as the only gravity that holds them to this reality is their pull on each other. ( Clara Oswald, daughter of a pop sensation – of course, she knows how to sing. Not quite as well, no, but never let it be said that she was never taught how. ) And how she dances while he plays on, feet stomping and moving just beside her Doctor, while she sings with him – dress swaying when she does, the ends of her sweat-drenched hair doing just the same.

sᴏ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴜᴘ ᴍʏ ᴇʏᴇs  
ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ɪ'ᴍ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ  
ᴛʜɪs ɪs ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ɢᴏ ᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴀʏ  
ɪғ ɪ'ᴍ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ɢᴜᴇss ᴡʜᴀᴛ’s ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍɪɴᴅ

The Companions come crashing in again now too, to everyone's delighted surprise, though all the rest of them simply keep performing. Amy and River, surrounding Troy and his ridiculous synthesiser with chimes and an attached musical triangle. Donna, knocking elbows with George with his guitar, grinning from ear to conspicuous ear. Rose, drumming on John’s pinstriped-coated shoulders as he keeps on with his steady beats. Martha, with an egg shaker, playing next to Warren – a rare glee in his own young-old eyes – as he keeps on with his bass guitar.

All the while, Clara and the Doctor sing together until the song ebbs away to a final beat from the drum and the crowd goes absolutely mental. Though the pair of them still refuse to see anything else but each other in that moment. Her – all dilated pupils, vein throbbing on her neck, a rapid rise and fall of her chest – at the most beautiful he’s ever seen her. Glowing, practically, in the spotlight. Guitar released, he swings it behind him in a swift motion, and before she can catch her breath, he takes her in his arms and surprises her for the second time that night.

A grand swooping gesture of a kiss is not something she would have expected from him – but he has always been impossible, hasn’t he? – and her hands are on either side of his face before her arms loop around his neck.

She doesn’t object – good God, no – and he practically hoists her into the air ( her feet are no longer touching the ground as it is ) when the crowd, and the bands on stage, cheers like never before. Earsplitting. Its echoes might be heard by the future grandchildren of everyone in attendance. ( That’s certainly one way to publicly announce a relationship! )

Her phone, already, is near going haywire with calls and twitter updates and notifications and text messages – but for the moment, she can hardly remember where she is. Afloat and flying. When they part, her feet slowly coming back to the ground, they’re grinning at each other. They can't stop grinning at each other. It is rare for him to not be flabbergastingly flustered about their relationship but for the moment, he’s too busy beaming at her while she beams at him to remember that he cares. ( She’s his and he looks as if he still hasn’t quite believed it himself; all shining eyes like the first man witnessing the first fire and all its glory. ) He wraps an arm around her shoulders, faces the audience, and takes hold of the microphone on the stand and yells out. The close of the show.

❛ **CLARA OSWALD AND THE COMPANIONS, EVERYBODY! AND EVERYBODY, GOOD NIGHT!**

**Author's Note:**

> Just in case it wasn't clear, I may have mucked up the instruments played by the appropriate Doctors from the original fic but John (Tenth Doctor) on drums, Troy (Eleventh Doctor; taken from 'Captain Troy Handsome') on synthesiser, George (Ninth Doctor; name taken from an alias the Ninth Doctor used in an audio story) on guitar, Warren (War Doctor; taken from 'war' ... because I'm super creative) on bass. 
> 
> A "first draft" & aesthetically-suited and heavily formatted version of this fic can be found on owedbetter.tumblr.com :)


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